


Tidal Wave

by whatkindofnameisella



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Angst, Critical Role Spoilers, F/M, Pining, Unrequited Love, but thats from caleb's perspective dont get it twisted, c2 ep 92, cr ep 92, neither ashley or liam is going to be on talks to answer for their actions and that is a crime, the "do you love her" convo but its definitively widojest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-28
Updated: 2020-01-28
Packaged: 2021-02-27 09:28:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,433
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22454965
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whatkindofnameisella/pseuds/whatkindofnameisella
Summary: “Do you love her?”The question hits him like a tidal wave, and it’s only after a few seconds that he starts to drown.(a very widojest take on the ep 92 "do you love her?" convo)
Relationships: Jester Lavorre/Caleb Widogast
Comments: 10
Kudos: 96





	Tidal Wave

“Do you love her?”

The question hits him like a tidal wave, and it’s only after a few seconds that he starts to drown. He blinks because his mind can’t keep up with his ears, and his heart starts to beat out of his chest (a traitorous thing, his heart), and his lungs are spasming because the tidal wave is burying him under the water and there is no air left to breathe (suitable for him even with all of the things he has just said, because he might be able to create something meaningful from the wreckage but good fucking _gods_ he does not deserve to be cherished) and, and – amongst all of it there is a heavy stone of dread settling in his stomach. He hopes Yasha does not mean who he thinks she does. She cannot mean _her_.

(He looks over to where Jester is sleeping, sprawled out in the moonlight leaking through the dome. She is beautiful when she sleeps. Not because she manages to stay pristine in unconsciousness, gods no – there is some drool coming out of her mouth and her hair is thrown across her face, tangled in her earrings and horns, and she is twisted a strange way, the blanket curled tightly around her. He imagines sharing a bed with her would be a nightmare. But her skin is a velvet pool of stars and her lips are parted just so and – even when she is a mess she is something new and startling and an enigma. Beautiful and off-catching and ineffable. He would be lucky to have the privilege of sleeping next to her.)

“Who?” It is a simple question, and it comes out of his mouth quiet and dripping with desperation. There is a moment of horrible silence and he wants to get on his knees and beg Yasha not to answer, would drag himself through the mud and grass to her feet and grovel with his charred soul bared if it only meant she would not open her lips and say a name. He is not ready to admit something like this, even to someone as broken and hoping as himself. Her eyes terrify him as he waits – there is a storm brewing in them. He understands why she is a foe not to anger.

“I don’t need to tell you who.”

Gods, _that_ is a clusterfuck of an answer, and Caleb can’t decide if it’s better or worse than a name. It is safety in anonymity and a confirmation of all of his fears, a blade twisted deep into his fragility, and the reality of it all sends him reeling further under. He tries to breathe deep but he is drowning in this tidal wave, lost in this churning miasma of blue, and he is stuck on a loop of breathing in, and in, and in, and – 

He remembers that day back in Xhorhaus, the first time of many (and how strange it is that he can say that now, _the many_ ) that she has reached out and held his hands. “I’m here for you, okay?” she had said, not knowing the way her hands had just dodged the sharp edges and embers and touched his fragile heart. And then they had gone out and shopped together and she had spent her money on spell components for him, and, well, that was the first string pulled loose. And then he had looked up to find her cheeks sparkled with gold dust – because of course they were, of course her cheeks were turned into a velvety depiction more beautiful than any night sky _(You are… Blue)_ , because he was standing there to ache at the sight of it and would never be able to hold and kiss them. And she had smiled at him _(Yes, and you are very nice, and a little stinky)_ and his heart had come loose and tumbled around his ribcage and – That day had been the beginning of it all. And then she had reached out to him – decided that his little corner, cracked and charred and hanging on by a thread but still trying to heal, maybe even a little hopeful, was worth sitting in again. And again. And they had traded jokes and smiles _(Looks like a good place for Traveler’s gate, ja?)_ and the faintest brushing of hands _(Hey, we’re here with you)_ and their fears and their hearts _(We will get you home again, I promise)_ , however broken and healing and leaning on the other _(Oh Jester… I am glad you see good in me)_ , and it was the sweetest torture _(I just figured this out a couple of weeks ago, so – I don’t know if you need… effects, or –)_ and he relished every second of it.

 _Do you love her?_ She asks him. Gods, how could he not.

He wonders when Yasha first saw it. While she is not that perceptive her heart is older and much more beautifully weathered than his, and he is sure it would not take much for her (or anyone, because he is sloppily in love and it does that to a person) to notice what has been his slow unravelling at the hands of Jester Lavorre.

He is still trying to breathe in, and he is still drowning, his lips pulled tight into a line because he does not trust himself if he were to speak, and the regret is immediately apparent on Yasha’s face. “Ah – I’m sorry, I –“ she looks to her lap and then back up to him in an attempt to backtrack, that old weathered heart of hers showing clear on her face, “As… as someone who has lost someone that they love very much… I know how important it is to say things before they are too late.” 

She gazes at him for a moment, and the look on his face must be horrible because she releases a sharp breath from some bruised place within her and looks away again. He blinks a few times, trying to get his mind to think _(the light from his spell is softly glowing onto her skin and the look on her face is wondrous as she clutches her hands to her chest, as if her heart is so full it will burst right out of it, and a smile breaks across her face, damning him to a life chasing the sublime ache of causing it again, as she breathes, “This is wonderful, Caleb –“)_ , and he looks over at Jester again, sprawled out and tangled hair and an enigma and _something he will never worthy of, not now or ever,_ and the feeling pressing against his chest at that thought is so suffocating and certain he thinks one of his ribs might just break. 

He shakes his head, and gods, when did he get so infatuated with her that he feels like he might cry? “It’s too late, Yasha.” He whispers it, because the saying it leaves him so bruised that even with his certainty of it he doesn’t know how he’ll go on tomorrow. “It’s too late.”

Yasha looks at him with some sort of pity or hope, and it’s sweet of her, to want to give him hope. She shrugs in some sort of attempt to fill this broken hearted silence, a grimace that aches for him and herself etched into the lines on her face. “Maybe not, I don’t know.”

Oh, that is sweet, he thinks, and it is not true, not a hope he should allow himself to have. Looking at her burns a bit – there is a person looking for a salvation he has long since abandoned swimming somewhere in the lilac and sky blue, and he looks away to avoid her gaze. He leans over, pats the top of her hand. She is sweet, and broken, and old and gentle and somehow still better than he feels he will ever be. 

It has been enough sorrow and self-pity for one night at that, and he curls up in the grass, turning his back away from Jester, that horrible feeling still seizing his chest and making him draw his body in close. If he is able to look at her he might start to believe Yasha, might come one more thread unraveled at the sight of her breathing slowly in the dark, and he can’t allow that to happen. It’s too late. For him. She deserves something much better.

Thunder sounds off somewhere in the distance. He closes his eyes and finally, sweetly, bruised and breaking, lets the tide pull him away.

**Author's Note:**

> I really didn't think I was gonnna end up writing something for this moment because i felt like i didn't know how to do it without taking away from the beauty of the conversation Caleb and Yasha had about trauma. And yet, sleep deprived on a Saturday evening, i thought, "well... why not give it a go." And here we are, three days and a whole lot of struggle later. Glad that we have all been collectively driven insane by Ashley Johnson and Liam O'Brien choosing to be cryptic about romance. Anyways. Yell at me about my writing on tumblr under whatkindofnameisella! I hope you enjoyed!


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